


You Gotta Stay Hungry

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Bonded!Boys [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Psychic Bond, Romance, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest, Soul Bond, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: 100-2.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:10:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bonded!Boys dealing with Bobby.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	You Gotta Stay Hungry

After that first go-ahead, it's like Sam doesn't remember how to keep a normal distance between them. He always has to be touching Dean—at least when they can get away with it. There are still too many moments when having Sam draped over his shoulders or touching his leg or trailing fingers along the back of Dean's neck would probably draw unwanted attention, or make the witness they're interviewing uncomfortable.

Dean doesn't mind, though the intensity of his brother's attention takes some serious getting used to.

They share a bed now by unspoken default—because Sam gets restless if he doesn't have Dean tucked close in his arms, and Dean prefers the warm reassurance of Sam pressed possessively along his back. It makes this whole surreal situation into something he can almost wrap his head around.

Bobby calls on a Friday, gruff and familiar, and all he says is, "Get your asses over here."

"Do you think he knows?" Sam asks while they drive.

"Fuck, no," says Dean, keeping the bulk of his attention on the road—which is a tough feat, considering the distraction of Sam's hand resting on his thigh, Sam's thumb brushing back and forth across the inseam of his jeans.

Bobby _doesn't_ know, as it turns out. In fact, he's got something he says might be a solution to their problem.

"You'll have to stay for a few days," Bobby insists. "It's a complicated ritual. No way to know if it'll even work, but it's the only lead I've found."

Staying under Bobby's roof and _not_ touching each other for the better part of a week sounds almost as awesome as the prospect of losing the volatile new bond between them—which is to say, shitty.

"What happens if we don't get rid of it?" Dean asks cautiously.

Bobby shrugs helplessly. "Could be nothing worse than you're already dealing with. Could be that it tears you boys apart. Though there is a consummation ritual… but trust me, you don't want to go there."

"What if we _were_ to consummate it?" Sam pipes up, and Dean wants to elbow his brother in the stomach and tell him to shut up.

Bobby scowls disapprovingly and taps restless fingers on the cover of the enormous leather tome in front of him. "Theoretically? The bond would settle and become unbreakable. No force in the world could undo it, not even this ritual. But from what I've read? Trust me when I say that ain't an option."

Dean's got a feeling they're not talking options here so much as something that's already done. Not that Bobby needs to know. But Dean exchanges a quick look with Sam, gets a short nod in response, and he knows they're going to let Bobby test out his theories. If it can't take away what they've discovered, then what harm can it do? It'll be a waste of time, sure, but if it gets Bobby off their trail then it's worth a little inconvenience.

The ritual doesn't do a damn thing, of course, and one week later Sam and Dean are bidding Bobby goodbye. They promise to keep him informed, to call him the _second_ anything changes, and then they hit the road as fast as they can. They need distance and a motel, _any_ motel, because there's a whole lot of lost time to make up for now. Dean's skin feels electric with the need to touch, and Sam in the driver's seat is barely keeping his eyes on the road, gaze scanning every sign that goes by in search of available lodging.

They finally find what they're looking for, and can't check in fast enough.

In the room, Sam is all over him in a heartbeat. It would be overwhelming even if all he felt was physical sensation, but Dean can barely breathe through the tidal wave of his brother's thoughts and urges and instincts—the very essence of _Sam_ pouring through Dean's bloodstream like it's the only natural thing.

"Jesus, Sammy," he breathes, the words mumbled against the demanding press of his brother's lips. "Fuck, slow down."

He wants to process this—he doesn't want fall too quickly over the edge and miss it the way he has every other time Sam has touched him—but he's just about to hit sensory overload, and Sam's fingers tugging at his clothes might be enough to push him over.

Sam backs off abruptly, pacing backwards to put a couple steps between them. The heavy hunger darkening Sam's face indicates that the concession of space is a difficult one. The wanting, eager buzz curling in the back of Dean's skull confirms it beyond question. Sam may have backed off, but he doesn't intend to keep his distance for long.

Dean's thoughts feel foggy and jumbled, and he feels the irrational need to reassure his brother. "I'm not backing out," he says. As if he could at this stage in the game.

"I know," says Sam. Dean can hear a thin shadow of humor in the words, but it's almost completely eclipsed by Sam's firm, heated intent. There's so much anticipation in the air Dean thinks he might be able to choke on it.

' _How are we doing this_?' Dean asks, letting his mind carry the question instead of his voice—he's not sure how his voice will sound if he tries to use it now. Something feels different tonight. Something tells him they're going to do more than slide desperately against each other until they both lose it this time.

' _However the hell you want_ ,' Sam informs him, taking an involuntary step forward. Dean breathes in sharply, unable to tear his eyes away from his brother's piercing, commanding gaze. Sam speaks aloud when he says, "For the love of god, Dean, get your clothes off already." ' _Or I'm going to tear them off you with my teeth_ ,' Dean hears crystal clear following the demand.

The image almost makes him smirk—hell, he might even laugh at the thought if he weren't busy complying as fast as humanly possible.

He wants to stop and stare when he realizes Sam is doing the same—scuffling out of his jeans and shirts in an awkward, intricate dance. They gawk at each other after, and Dean realizes they've never taken the time to do this—Dean feels caught on how surreal it seems. He's seen Sam naked plenty, but this is different.

This is both of them, staring each other down like they're facing off—breathing hard, and naked, and seconds away from falling into each other with the explosive force of a star going nova.

Dean has never seen anything so beautiful as the sight before him right now—and his chest tightens alarmingly when he picks up his brother's thoughts and realizes Sam is thinking exactly the same thing. There's not nearly enough oxygen in the room suddenly, and Dean feels lightheaded when Sam takes a step forward, then a second. Dean tilts his head back to look his brother in the eye.

"Christ, Dean," says Sam, reaching to trace Dean's jaw with the fingers of one hand. "The things I want to do to you…"

"Show me," whispers Dean. He doesn't even know how he means it, physically or otherwise, but it doesn't matter. Sam slides his palm along Dean's cheek and leans in to press their foreheads together, yanking Dean flush against him as he throws open the last of his shields and lets Dean see flash after vivid flash of images—more than enough to prove the point.

Dean sees himself on his knees, Sam's cock between his lips, spreading his mouth wide; he sees his own face pressed against a paisley-papered wall, Sam plastered along his back, Sam thrusting into him from behind; he sees himself on his back on a gray comforter, Sam between his thighs and rocking his hips in an unpredictable rhythm, leaning in low to capture Dean's mouth in a surprisingly tender kiss.

" _That one_ ," Dean gasps, aloud and in his mind. "Want— _fuck_ , Sam—want to do that one."

Sam growls and kisses him, then practically carries him over to the bed, eager to oblige.

Dean's head is spinning and his blood feels like fire—Sam is impossible heat beneath his hands, pushy and unmovable and thrilling. Sam grabs and shoves, manhandles Dean easily—and Dean will never admit out loud how much he loves it, but he doesn't have to. Sam already knows.

Sam's off him for all of thirty seconds, and then he's back, settling his body between Dean's knees and crushing Dean into the mattress. His fingers, when they slide between Dean's legs, are slick and little bit chilly. Dean hisses in momentary surprise, and Sam kisses him again, hurried mumbles of "Sorry, sorry, sorry," against Dean's lips as the same refrain echoes in his head.

He preps Dean quickly, slick slide of fingers in and out, one then two then three. It's not long enough, but they're both vibrating with impatience, fueling the matching fires already smoldering in their bellies. When Sam lines himself up, blunt tip of his cock nudging at Dean's entrance, they both hold their breath; and when he slides in too soon, too fast, too hard, they both gasp and shout in a commingled overload of pleasure and pain.

"Oh, fuck," Dean gasps, clinging to Sam's bicep with one hand and clutching the comforter with the other. His mind reels at the tight, hot length of Sam's cock splitting him open, the feel of Sam's body nestled in as close as he can get between Dean's thighs. Sam's face is buried against Dean's throat, one hand braced at Dean's hip, and— _fuck_ —is that Sam shaking, or him?

They hold taut like that for agonizing seconds, moments ticking forward as Dean's body adjusts, and Sam obviously and valiantly fights the urge to _move_ already.

"Okay," Dean gasps, when he can't take it anymore. "Okay, come on, give it to me already!"

And Sam does. _God_ he does. He springs to life instantly, hips snapping back and forward into an immediate, desperate rhythm. He's relentless and unforgiving, harsh thrusts that Dean knows his body will be aching from later, but at the moment he doesn't care about that. All he feels is the roiling, maddening, mounting pleasure spinning out of control. He can sense the edge approaching with vicious, undulating speed—the edge of a cliff with god knows what beneath, but he's not thinking about that—he's not thinking about _anything_.

He's lost—going, going, gone—lightning and stars and volcanoes exploding behind his eyes, and he doesn't even remember closing them.

Sam must be close behind him, maybe even trips over that cliff at the exact same moment, but Dean whites out and has no way to know. In that instant there's no Sam, no Dean, no world or sky or cheap motel room. There's nothing but the perfect, overpowering pulse of orgasm.

It hits him so hard that Dean doesn't care if he ever comes down.


End file.
